


The Rose and the Bleeding Stag

by TheWindsOfStyles



Category: Harry Styles - Fandom, Larry Stylinson - Fandom, Louis Tomlinson - Fandom, One Direction (Band), Vikings (TV), liam payne - Fandom, niall horan - Fandom, zayn malik - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Historical, History, Larry fanfic, M/M, Multi, Vikings, tom hiddleston - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-10-20 23:10:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17631503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWindsOfStyles/pseuds/TheWindsOfStyles
Summary: Louis has a goal: conquering  the "Land of the Rose", that land that every night runs in his dreams, which is shown to him, without ever revealing itsself completely. Louis is a Viking, and he has to prove his honor, bring up his name, and find a place he can finally call "home."Harold (Harry) is a prince, heir to the Kingdom of Northumbria, forced to marry a woman he does not love, a man who repudiates  war, but who will have to fight for his kingdom, first, for his love, then.A story of love, war, deceit and betrayal, a story that intertwines two threads, two princes, two men, two nations. A forbidden and toxic love, with dangerous consequences.





	1. Prologue

Prologue

Norway, 865 A.D.

 

If that land could speak, it would have told about him. Everything there, belonged to him, to everything he was, to his words, to his soul. And he loved that land, deeply. He had never denied it, he would have never done it, he never would have parted from what he was, from everything it represented for him.

Yet, in the summer nights preceding the raids, he had experienced some unusual dreams: a new land, a faraway land with its rains and the deep breath of its winds that kept on calling his name every night. And every time he tried to ward those thoughts off, by placing them in nothing more than in his own dreamlike universe, that idea would come back to life in his mind. It was as if something, in that land with no name, was calling latching on to him, letting its own voice slide into his deepest and most inner self.  
After the third week during which that vision had repeatedly come up during his sleep, he decided that he could not ignore it anymore, not after what had he had seen in his most recent dream: a rose had blossomed out of that wet soil, whispering his name, softly and gently.

And that morning he had decided to set the matter, with words that were less oneiric and fairy, to its clan, to its people, to his father.

Summer raids were certainly not something Northmen could live without, but he had a troubled soul, that was swiftly and constantly changing its direction. His emotional balance was constantly challenged by his restless nature, and he was fed up with that flat life he was living, he had been waiting for something that would wake him up from that dreary state he had fallen into.

The sea knew his name too well, as did each single blade of grass, each grain of sand, each wolf howling in the forest. Every single living creature knew about him: Thor's favourite child, the Prince of Dreams and War, that's how they called him. But this had nothing to do with the fact that he has the King's eldest son: he had made his own reputation with his hands, blood and sweat, proving wrong those who thought he would've died because of his physical appearance. Too short, too thin to be a Viking, that's what they said. Since he was a child, he had to prove that no, he was not "too small" to be a child of the Northern spirits. And now, his efforts had been rewarded: his fame was huge, as huge as his will to prove his honour elsewhere. Everything there was too easy, for him. Furthermore, there was something in that land that kept whispering his name, something that belonged to him. He didn't know what, but it was there, waiting for him to come and claim it as his own. He knew it.


	2. Mind of Mine

Mind of Mine

I was riding through the trees, the rain, and the sound of the wind, as raindrops whipped my face and my hair, now drenched in summer rain. I had to take part to the assembly, as my father wanted me to, and I would've been there...but I wouldn't have indulged his will, not this time.

It would've been too much, it would've been like suffocating my own nature, my deepest thoughts and wishes.   
I was late, and I was grateful to my horse for being faster than the wind and I was grateful to Thor, Odin, and the whole heavenly host when, after dismounting my horse, I saw half of the participants to the assembly entertaining themselves outside the main room: I was able to get there on time and they hadn't started without me.

My gaze rested on all of them, squaring them one by one, searching for my companions.   
Those men could not have been more predictable. They all were there to present the usual requests, the usual ideas that they perceived as "new and special".  
My internal flow of thoughts was immediately interrupted by a blow on my right shoulder, and without even mentioning to turn, I smiled: I knew exactly who it was, because no one else would have dared to catch me by surprise from behind.  
"Good Morning Njall. Looks like you're late, too, how comes? Kjartan's daughter again? "

He burst out laughing, and to me it was a confirmation that, again, I was right.   
Njall had always been my dearest friend and ally, ever since we were children. He was solar, funny, and he knew how to draw attention if he wanted it. But he was also very naïve, sometimes, and it was not exactly a good thing for the world we lived in, so raw and ruthless.

Things were very different when it came to Zygvarr. He too, like Njall, had been my playmate since childhood, my right-hand man, my greatest ally in the wrongdoings that often cost us more than they should have: after all, we were just kids.   
But we were grown up men. We had to prove our honor, our strength, sagacity, intelligence, wit. We had to risk it all and that was exactly what I meant to do that day.   
Zygvarr, as well as Njall, joined me, and we walked next to each other for a few feet.  
Zygvarr was a handsome man: hair as black as night, and deep, dark brown eyes, proud and filled with self-consciousness. He was tall, certainly taller than me, and very skillful with his axe. His greatest gift was probably his cunning, his ability to manipulate deceits as if they were fiery iron in the hands of a skilled blacksmith. Women desired him earnestly, almost as much as the Chiefs of Armed armies wished to have him among them. But the two of us fought together, always.  
Crossing the threshold of the hut in which the assembly would be held, everything seemed in perfect order, almost everyone had their seats. I reached mine, right next to my father, greeting in a careless way those who stood on my way. Njall and Zygvarr followed me, before going to take their seats in the first rows of the assembly. After all, their families were also among the most prominent of the clan.   
I patiently waited for my father to give the customary greeting to open the assembly, passing my hands on my wooden and iron dagger, and looking up from time to time, until the silence reigned. My father, Thorvall, a stout but still charming man, with long blond hair, as well as his bushy beard, stood up, raising his arms to seek attention.

"Comrades, friends, family, welcome. Today, as usual, here we are, meeting to discuss what troubles us the most during this time of year: summer raids. As always, we plan to move eastwards, and I trust that you all strongly agree on this. "

A buzz of approval followed those statements, but all I could hear, indeed, was the blood that was pumping in my ears, and the heart increasing its beat.   
Suddenly, I got up from my seat, noticing Njall and Zygvarr's gaze pointing at me.

"Father, I strongly and deeply respect you, but...I disagree. And I've got something to say."


	3. Something New

Something New

The eyes of Njall, those of Zygvarr, those of every single human being, man or woman in that damned room were only pointed at me. And that was the right time to speak, to present to all my desires, my ambitions, to let my voice be heard. And I did, I spoke my truth, for once.  
"What's the matter, Louis?"  
My father frowned, and looked at me with a slightly surprised expression on his face.

I was never, nor had ever been the silent and good one, but I rarely dared to oppose the decisions taken in the assembly: I usually had not much to comment, and at the end of the day I had always accepted without too much reluctance what had been proposed. But it was not the case, this time: I had to give some sort of shape to that dream of mine, and it all depended on me.  
"I disagree with going east this year. It's what we always do, what everyone expects from us. But the world is not only the east. Small fishermen villages are not the only thing to pillage." 

I looked around... some nodded, some were puzzled. They knew that, at the end of the day, I was right, and I knew that, like me, many of them were tired of the monotony that all this represented, but they would never have the guts to oppose, to try something new.   
None of them dared to speak, and so I went on with my speech.   
"I had a dream this night... there was a land, a green land and flourishing, that overlooked the sea and whose villages were rich. And..."  
I remembered something, something particularly interesting: a huge sweep of flowers that I had never seen, of a bright red colour, as red as blood. But I decided to keep that particular to myself.   
"We should find these lands." I gazed up, looking all around me.

There was a general murmur, accompanied by a few laughs of mockery and some sarcastic remarks. "Should we risk everything, based on your dreams, boy? Is that what you're saying?"  
Valdemar, Zygvarr father spoke. That man had always been impertinent, and I admit that his son had inherited that quality, although the latter did not lack cunning and intelligence, which certainly did not belong, at least partially, to Valdemar. He had always been jealous of my father social position as a King, as a man and as a husband, and I had been told that, even during their childhood, the competition between the was strong enough to lead to strong arguments and fights. Nothing too serious, of course, but as much as he tried to hide it, we all knew Valdemar wanted to be where my father was. This sort of jealousy, however, did not trouble my father much. He had always tried to keep it clean and safe, and the result of his efforts was me and Zygvarr being eternal friends and companions. 

My father turned in my direction, passing his hands on his thick, blonde beard, as he always did when he was lost in his thoughts. Then he spoke:   
"Louis, my dear son, what sort of idea is this? For sure the east is not the only place in the world where we could raid, but how do you know where this magical land you're talking about is? And how do you reach it? "

At least, he was taking it into account, and I tried to be as convincing as possible.

 

"Father, I think it's located in the West. Thor and Odin are in our favour, this could be a sign." I was almost begging him to give me a chance, and I knew this was not what I was used to, but I wanted it, I really wanted it.   
"What about you! -I said aloud, addressing the participants in the Assembly- why don't you think about how much wealth could a new expedition bring to us all. It's about new Lands, new worlds, new villages. We could get far, expand, become the Masters of a New world."

I beheld Njall stand up, lifting one arm before speaking:   
"I think Louis is telling the truth. It's an opportunity. Why not try it? "   
I was thankful to him for his support, and I turned a smile that expressed my deep gratitude for what he was doing. Someone, however, had to dispute. "What have we to lose?! We don't even know where this place is, we don't even know if it exists. If we get lost at sea, or have our ships damaged, it would be a disaster!"

A buzz of consent arose to Kjartan's words: That man was even afraid of his own shadow, and no one was surprised by his intervention.

Zygvarr took the floor, also in my favour: "Yes, it could go wrong. But it could be good, too. Louis has divine dreams, we all know that. It could be a sign of the gods, we might be destined for something great, something that no other clan or people have ever discovered or known! ".

Murmurs, jokes of mockery, some nod of consent: everything arose to his words, until my father stood up, calling everyone to order. "Hush!" He tapped his stick on the wooden floor of the upside on which his seat was placed, and everything subsided. I pointed my blue eyes at him, hoping he would give me a chance to prove to everyone that, in the end, I was right.

A bike of pride pushed in my chest as I waited for him to speak, without saying a word, moving the gaze from him to my two friends.

"The boys might be right, as you too could all be. They are young, they are the men who will take the reins of our world when we are greeted by Odin in Walhalla. They deserve a chance, I believe"

I let a smile come to my face, and a new, bursting fire lighted my eyes, concealing my desire for adventure and my thirst for knowledge. All around, there were protests and abrupt comments, but all were immediately silenced.

"... but! You three will be the only ones to lead the expedition. I will not provide you with any host, anyone who wants to join you, will do it spontaneously, and you will be the one to procure what's necessary: the ships, the weapons, the provisions. You'll have do it yourself, Louis."

I nodded to what seemed like a good compromise, and a good chance to show that, even without the help of the old bones and blood that surrounded us, we could do it. I would have brought up our, my name. And I would have caught that flower as red as blood that I still had before my eyes since the previous night.

"Yes, father."


	4. New Dawn

New Dawn

In the weeks that followed the assembly, I did not let my body rest, nor my mind, not even for a second. I felt a flicker in me, something that pushed me on and on and on, like a thread tied to the ropes of my soul, that someone, who knows who, and who knows in what place in the world, wielded with care and mastery, attracting me towards myself as if I was a puppet hanging from wires. Yet, I never felt the need to detach myself from that force that constantly kept alive inside of me the thirst for knowledge.  
I wanted to, and I knew I could find that something I had been promised by some God, who was being more than benevolent towards me. Therefore, I was firmly convinced of the success of that expedition, although I realized the dangers I was going to face, or should I say we were going to face. Yes, because Njall and Zygvarr had kept on being my firm point in that crazy idea, encouraging me, supporting me, helping me.   
We were had been awake night and day, we had designed every detail of each ship, and, with some help, the whole thing was taking shape. I had gathered the necessary provisions for the voyage, but still only a few men had joined us, too few to be able to consider that small group a true Viking horde suitable to pillage any city.   
Of course, no one would have had problems if it had been small villages of peasants, women and children. But I felt that there was more than just this, and I could not be unprepared when the moment would come. Therefore, we spent the weeks moving through the various clans, the various families around our area, proposing our cause, trying to find allies, men who were brave enough to try everything for everything. By the end of the month, we had gathered enough men to be able to pull up a modest armed troop.

The work had been long and exhausting, but when the last ship was completed, a bike of pride wrapped my chest, and I remained contemplating it for a long time, turning around it several times. It was dawning, and we had been working really hard all night. My hands were red for the cold, as well as my cheeks, and my legs were tired, my eyes heavy and my face dug out of tiredness accumulated in previous weeks. I decided to simply let myself go on the ground, where the gentle soil of my homeland was always ready to welcome me, and I closed my eyes. I knew the hardest chapter of that adventure was yet to come. I prayed to Thor in silence, I prayed that he would give me strength, that he would make me skilful and strong enough to accomplish that task for which I had been chosen.

The cold wind of the North lashed on my face, and a peace enveloped the surrounding nature...if it was not for the words of Njall, who brought me back to reality, I would have stayed there to sleep, to rest and hope to find again, in my dreams , something of that place, and some more detail about that magical flower. For days now, it had become the main thought filling my days. The colour was of a bright red, similar to the blood flowing from the veins of men, and its scent... I could have sworn I could feel it, and yet I didn't even know it.

"Tonight, is the great night, Louis! Aren't you excited? "

"Somewhat, Njall, but I will be more when tomorrow we will sail towards something more than the usual bay of Swedish peasants and fishermen."  
I chuckled, giving him an accomplice glance, he reciprocated, smiling in turn with Zygvarr. He was always very silent, but at the right moment he always knew what to say.

"And have you thought about how will disembarking on a new coast feel? With new lands, new people... new women. " The mischievous smile on his face said it all: it had always been a great attraction for every woman in the neighbourhood, was she a slave or a princess. Not that I could complain, but Zygvarr knew how behave with women, much more than I did. All this brought back to my memory the fact that none of us three had yet taken a wife, although my father had decided to put forward various proposals in my place. The truth was that, however, I could not find anything interesting in women in that place, and at the time, my mind travelled elsewhere: I did not intend to root there, build up a family and remain rotting for the rest of my days.

"New women, but none of them is good enough to persuade our Louis to take her as a bride, are they?" Njall practically read my thoughts, and we both burst out laughing.

"Who said anything about marriage?" Zygvarr turned to us, smiling, as he used to do, with his tongue between his teeth, and then look elsewhere.

I turned, noticing the sun getting higher and higher on us, bathing with its faint rays the sandy shores, the trees, the houses... I would have missed that place, it was my home, and I would not have denied it. But I felt I had a new path opening right in front of me.

I stood up and quickly lifting the soil from the leather bream that I wore, I murmured "come on, we have to prepare for tonight."

That evening, everything happened according to the rules of rituals, all according to tradition, all according to the will of Thor, Odin and every divine entity to whom a propitiatory sacrifice was offered. There still were people mocking on us and mumbling some mock remarks: "As if Thorr wasted his power with such a foolish idea!" or "the only one who will lead this expedition is Loki, I tell you, and he will sink those damn ships!".   
I did not answer, though the blood was boiling in my veins, but I would have avenged myself and proved them wrong in my own way.

The blood of the slaughtered animals still bathed my hands, which I washed in the water of the stream, icy and gushing as always. After that evening, everything was complete, the circle of preparations had been concluded, and perhaps, Thor had accepted my cause, accepting my sacrifices and allowing me to have good fortune in my new adventure. I did not know what to expect, but I had spent a lot of time thinking, and there I was, as every evening, sitting on the bank of the river, contemplating for the last few moments that place for twenty-one summers and twenty-one winters I had called home. I turned my gaze to the stars. The sky was clear on that summer evening and I found myself with the heart of a child, hoping that my mother was part of those stars and could see me.

"I know you've always been afraid when I walked away from home... I know you've always tried to keep my stormy, insolent, difficult, rebellious character at bay. But I'm doing it for you too, mother. Because you know who I am, and for you to understand how empty this place looks for me, without you. I need a new reason to call a place "home". If you love me, you'll help me find her. "

And I was not wrong.


	5. Hearth in a Cage

A Heart in a Cage

England 865 A.D.,

Kingdom of Northumbria

"I am honoured to have you as a guest, King Edmund. I am sure that your stay will be as pleasant as the summer sun, and I hope the princess has made a good trip. " The room was cold, although fires were lit early in the morning to warm it up, in view of the arrival of King Edmund and his daughter, Hella. A princess of rare beauty and intelligence: that's how they all described it. Not that Harold cared much: he would still have to fulfil his duties as a king-to-be, and seal that union with a sumptuous marriage and, it was hoped, even a son. The idea of a marriage was definitely not the most exciting thing in the world, for him, let alone that of a son, especially at that time. But he was still a prince, and all he had to do, at that moment, was obey his father's orders. Yes, his father... when he warned his voice in the lobby, he understood that they would soon arrive in the main hall, and he decided to get up from his chair, reuniting at best, and trying to put on one of his best smiles. The hall was a huge reflection of the richness of his father's reign: large, with a high ceiling and decorated with gilded cornice, and wide windows that overlooked both the city of York and the green fields surrounding it. Harold often gazed at those fields, wondering what the taste of freedom was, the thing he craved the most in the world. On the contrary to what one would expect of a prince, he had never had any ambition in power: it was not his characteristic, that of having great pretensions on a kingdom, let alone the expansion of it. Different were his father's ideas, so different that he had organized that meeting in mind of the clear expansionist aims. He obviously knew that an agreement with King Edmund was the key to making demands on the kingdom of Mercia, and what better arrangement than a marriage between the two heirs to the thrones? Both young, beautiful, in their best years and with a radiant future ahead. These were the words with which his guardian, the monk Æthelbert had posed the matter to Harold, but everything he saw in that situation was a prison. A golden prison, of course, made of lands, castles, delicious food, gold and women, but still a prison. And Harold was more than convinced that it wasn't exactly what he wanted for his future. He could not shirr his father's will, he could not escape his responsibilities, but all this did not forbid his thought to soar in the air as if it were a swallow, eager to explore worlds that went beyond that of the court within which he had grown up. He loved his land, he loved his people, of course, he could not deny it to himself, but he felt trapped. He had often looked towards the sea, during the long rides on the beaches, wondering how far that blue expanse extended, and what the horizon hid, from what it separated him, as if it was the limit of his freedom.

He had always been very good at getting lost in that kind of thinking, so good that he did not to notice, very often, what was happening around him: and it was exactly what had happened, in that moment. William had to recall him to reality, with a slight blow on his elbow, and only then did he realize he was in the presence of his father, King Edward, King Edmund and his daughter, the famous Hella, of whom he had so much heard of in recent times.   
"And that, is my young heir, Harold. I hope you heard good things about him! "sentenced his father, trying, in his own way, to pull his praises. King Edmund seemed to support his game: "But of course, naturally. His fame as a leader is great, His Majesty, and the boy receives praise for his infinite beauty and kingship. Which seems to me to be confirmed, isn't it, dear? " He turned to his daughter, who from the moment she had entered had not detached her eyes from Harold even for a second.   
"Certainly, father, the prince corresponds in everything to the description that ladies and Knights have done at our court, and my honour in being chosen as his consort could not be greater."

Harold restrained himself from swirling his eyes to the sky: all those fine words, all that continual and senseless false courtesy almost made him nauseous. However, it was not in his nature to be rude, especially with women, and certainly he would not have taken from his own principles with the one who was to become his wife, and for this reason he decided to speak, proffering a slight bow before the Princess and her father.

"Good morning, Your majesty. I am as happy as my father for your visit, and your compliments flatter me. And, conversely, I must say that the voices on your daughter's account do not make her justice at all: they diminish her beauty and her grace. "

William, at his side, almost burst out laughing. He knew Harold since they were children, they had grown up together, and he could interpret the tone of his voice and expressions of his face better than anyone else could, and he knew he was lying, shamelessly. Not that Harold gave it away easily, in fact, he had always been a good actor, and as a child had always been him to find the best excuses to hide their mischiefs. But Liam and Harry, as they were calling each other, knew each other better than anyone else in the world. And Liam, basically, knew that Harry couldn't care less about that woman. And he wondered how others did not notice the light in his eyes, that slowly went off every time Harry did not approve of something and came back to shine like a dragon fire every time his heart was flashing for something else. But moreover, that court was pervaded by falsehood, superficiality, the lust for power that obscured the gaze of every individual, man or woman it was, and it was no surprise that the deepest feelings and desires of each one were ignored: everything was a dark veil, behind which was hidden the depths of the souls who did not want and could not be revealed. And yet Harry was different, Liam had always known this. He did not pursue everything that everyone pursued, he did not crave power, but the freedom to be himself, to be able to love what he really loved. He was like a swallow in a cage, and Liam often had hoped he could be the man who would open that cage to help him escape and soar in flight like the most beautiful among the eagles.   
"You are even more beautiful than they describe you, Prince Harold," admitted Hella without any shyness, "and certainly kinder and more graceful as they describe you. I wonder how behind such finesse and royalty can conceal the soul of the bloody warrior of which they all tell. "   
Surely Hella wasn't lying. Harold was handsome, unbelievably handsome. The curly and brown hair adorned his perfectly proportioned face, and framed two perfect, big and very deep eyes, as green as the sea. He didn't smile very often, at least, not lately. But when he did, the world was buying a new light. At the sides of his cheeks, two pronounced dimples appeared with arrogance, and his lips full and red were the boundary to a bright smile that, however, rarely reached his eyes, recently extinguished by sadness, boredom, loneliness.

King Edward smiled: moving his gaze from Edmund, to Harold, to Hella, ignoring Liam almost as if he were not there. His plan was perfect, as always, for that matter, and he knew that his son's fame would be the bait that would make the big fish bite, and he was certainly not wrong. His son was as handsome as the sun, having inherited his mother's traits, and strong as a wolf, having inherited this trait from him: a perfect blend for a young bachelor prince, and an equally perfect lure for his expansionist aims. Not that the king was an ungraceful or unpleasant man, indeed. Edward had a couple of insightful blue eyes, and, just like his son, his hair was curly, but of an ash-blond colour. His face was always perfectly shaved, his forehead wide and his cheeks slightly sunken, furrows of the years that passed even for him, although he was not so forward in age. He was a tall man, reaching the metre and eighty-eight centimetres, with a dry physique, but perfectly fit for his age, and even his smile, like that of his son, dug into his cheeks two small dimples. For a fearsome warrior, when he was outside the battlefield, his manners were of immense grace, and his gestures were fluid, soft, and his smile accompanied each of them. Many of these features, Harold had inherited, although it was endowed with a more pronounced sensibility, which certainly did not belong to King Edward. He was a kind man, sure, but stern, rigid, and sometimes ruthless. But he knew how to hide everything very well when he needed it.

"I suppose you have been informed of the way we intend to celebrate this marriage promise, King Edmund," explained Edward aloud, enlarging his arms, while Harold had brought his gaze outward to that sumptuous royal residence, " Tonight there will be a wonderful feast, with the sweetest drinks of the kingdom and the most delicious foods! "

"Of course, we have been informed, and we look forward to taking part in these celebrations" confirmed Edmund, sharing the enthusiasm, unjustified, thought Harold, for that news. 

That evening, the banquet was the richest that had ever been seen in all the years of King Edward's reign. Not that he was a cheap bear, of course, there just never was a chance for something so special. The hall was grandly illuminated by the finest candles of the best craftsmen in Northumbria, and the music was that of the best instrumentalists in the kingdom. The food was absolutely exquisite: suckling pig cooked with honey, red and juicy onions, the richest and tastiest soup that had ever been eaten: this, at least, was what King Edmund had said in his drunken state after the fourth carafe of wine he had drained on his own. Ladies and Young Knights danced to the rhythm of the most beautiful music, laughing and exchanging fleeting glances of love and lust, men did not lose an opportunity to stretch their hands on the serves, and the Kings had certainly not spared themselves in drinking, and now they were satiated and drunk enough. William had found a lady with whom he had exchanged a few words and a dance, while Harold sat in his armchair, next to his betrothed, who throughout the evening had attempted to get out of his mouth a few words that were not said by courtesy, but with poor results.

"Are feasts always like this, here?"

"More or less... are they not like this everywhere?" Harold spoke little, and softly, but his voice was warm and profound, and he would have seduced any living creature endowed with the faculty of hearing. Never a word too much, never one less: he measured the words almost as if they were honey, and he gave them great value. He chose them carefully, and he was always carefully trying to make them come out in the right way.

"I suppose so, but... it looks special tonight. But maybe it's not the party itself... " Hella had turned around to look at him for the first-time during evening. His penetrating gaze had lain on her for the rest of the whole day since he had had looked at her in the morning, and that evening she had not dared to look at him again: she still felt the burning sensation that his eyes had left her on the skin, in that fast but delicate kiss which he had devoted to her that morning, during their meeting. But now she felt the need to look at him again, she felt the need to know the man who, at the end of the day, would shortly be her man. And she had no modesty when, after turning around towards him, she had stretched her hand to touch the prince's. His hands were another of the details that made him look almost like a sort of demigod: wide, tapered, warm and soft. Or at least, this was the kind of touch that she had imagined on her own skin. And now she had confirmation that his skin was as soft as the finest wool in England. Hella was a beautiful young woman, about eighteen years old: long black hair fell on her shoulders, almost looking like a whole with the velvet robe that she was wearing that evening. Her eyes were of a bright amber colour, inflamed by a craving for power and lust. She was not very tall, and next to Harold she almost looked like a child, but certainly girlhood innocence was not her distinctive trait.   
"Perhaps it is the idea of having such a handsome, mighty man to make me so... merry." Hella had let his hand slip under the table, on Harold's knee, letting it make its way up his thigh, while those words had been whispered to his ear, making sure that no one could hear them, no one but him.

But Harold had never loved physical contact, and drew back immediately, rising from the seat that suddenly seemed to him the least comfortable place in the whole world.

"What are you doing?!"

And the world seemed to snap and retract with him, just in that moment. The music had ceased, the doors of the Great Hall had been wide opened, and a cry of terror had risen from the corridors.

"The Demons, your Majesty! The Demons from the sea! "


	6. Ripping off the Rose

Soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Apxj8_JPHRo

 

Ripping off The Rose

Harold had shut his eyes, almost as a refusal to see what was happening around him. It was as if the world had stopped as that icy dagger had touched the skin of his throat. That stranger held him tightly by the shoulders, forcing him to that position. Chills of cold, fear, and terror glided down his back, and the only thing he could hear was his heartbeat and the blood that was pumping in his ears. What would happen, he did not know, but he was not afraid to die. What he feared was something else: he feared he had to see collapse right under his eyes all that he had known until that moment. Although he hated his position, he loved his people, his land. And he loved freedom, though it was something almost totally unknown to him. He opened his eyes and let his gaze wander around, as far as that position allowed him, laying it on his dearest friend, lying on the ground, bleeding and with a grimace of pain painted on his face. A dark-haired man towered over him, continuing to turn around him, with an amused expression on his face. His father, a little farther, carried serious wounds on the face and chest, and a man of average stature with hair as blond as the summer sun was standing on what had before been his throne and kept shooting arrows from the distance, with the precision of a hawk swooping on his prey.

Harry felt his legs soft and his head in an incredible state of confusion. He wanted to scream and writhe from that grip, but he knew that a single wrong movement would have led him to certain death. It was as if his whole world was collapsing under his gaze and he, helpless as he was, remained as a spectator to that nauseating and, in some respects, almost ridiculous show. He was about to let go, but a blow behind him awakened him from that stupor in which he had collapsed for a matter of seconds: from the back of the hall, in the sound of swords and daggers, among that throng of corpses, came a great squadron of soldiers wearing the Royal armour. King Edmund had gone calling for help and in a short time he had gathered his forces, uniting them with the rest of King Edward's troops, leaving only one part to defend the rest of the town, plunged into utter chaos. The soldiers had burst into the Great Hall, and the host of Vikings, in comparison, seemed now no more than a small group of young boys in arms.

Louis had been distracted for a few seconds by what had just happened: he could not believe his eyes, as well as Zygvarr and Njall and all the rest of the men who, now looked around in search of an easy escape route. His plan was turning into smoke, and his dreams slipped through his hands like small grains of fine sand.

"Run! Run Away, Retreat! "He had shouted, loosening the grip upon Harold's body, who had readily profited by the momentary weakness of his adversary to writhe by that mortal grip, and had turned around, landing him with a kick in the back, which had him writhing in pain.

"You Little Bastard." Louis had whispered through his teeth in an attempt to get up again but being landed again by a powerful kick fixed by Harold on his side.

"No, Louis!"

He would not have had a chance if, once again, Njall had not been attentive enough and swift in the stroke of an arrow, which was once struck Harold on the right hip.

"AH!"

The prince had slumped to the ground, sore, while the blood was beginning to flow abundantly from his right hip, from which he had removed the tip of the dart. He felt his sight darkening and his head spinning, but he tried to get up again, only to fall back once more, beating his head on the cold floor of the hall. After that, he fell into the darkness.

Louis was, however, alive and present, and he was certainly not a fool: he had understood that if they had not repaired elsewhere immediately, there would have been no escape for them. So, he ordered his men to retreat. But it was not the end, not for him. In a fraction of a second, his mind elaborated a series of ideas, plans and thoughts. He had looked up at Zygvarr, who had swiftly understood his intentions, and had indulged them with a sneer which, quite often, appeared on his handsome face, like a gash on a white canvas.

Louis quickly slumped over Harold's helpless body, observing him for a few seconds before making a quick decision.

"Njall, Zygvarr, out!"

He had intimated to his companions a dry and single order, and the three had left the hall, preceded by the rest of the warriors, who had run away after stealing as much as possible in terms of gold and silver.

Louis still felt the adrenaline of the battle flowing into his body, as he ran to the darkest and most hidden place they could find in that forest.

The battle had ended in favour of the king's guards, who were now praising their victory, raising swords as a sign of celebration, while the king and the numerous wounded men were swiftly brought to the great infirmary so that they could be quickly cared for and medicated.

"The King! Save the King. "He had intimated William, as he was lifted from the ground and carried away from that place.

King Edward, still shaken and bleeding, had been loaded by the guards on a rudimentary stretcher, made of wood and canvas, and had been transported swiftly up the staircase leading to his apartments. The man, though the prey to excruciating pain, had not even mentioned a lamentation, dared not utter a word, and remained there, with a harsh and merciless expression on his face. He had not mentioned talking, not even when his doctors had informed him about the severity of the wounds on his chest and shoulders.

But something would soon upset his state of mute reflection on those events, awakening him from that silent meditation of vengeance. A thought, fleeting and swift as the sting of an insect, had crossed his mind, throwing him into a state of profound turmoil. He had suddenly seated himself on his bed: the face as white as a corpse, blue eyes obscured by a shadow of terror, his bare chest studded with cuts and wounds still open. He had looked round, and under the troubled gaze of those who surrounded him--doctors, monks, guards--he simply posed a question: "My son... where is my son? Where's HAROLD?! "


	7. Wind of Death

Wind of Death

The long ships glided like dark shadows on the skin of the sea as black as crows, only illuminated by the dim light of the Stars and the moon that, from time to time, peeped through the dark and laden with rain clouds, that overstood the sky of England that evening.

The earth had been a distant mirage for weeks for the troop of warriors who about two months before had embarked on that voyage. The storms had swallowed two of their ships, and a part of their men and their provisions had gone along with the greedy bilges of the North Sea. The crossing had been long, exhausting, and had put a strain on the nerves of every single man on that ship: no one knew where they were heading, no one had any idea what the route was to follow and, in the end, no one had any confidence in the success of that Trip. Nobody but one.

Louis had peered into the sky, the sea, the clouds, the stars, he had studied the winds and the currents, and had consulted repeatedly that strange object which years before he had been given by the seer of the village. "When your heart commands your instincts, you will learn to read it and find your way," this he had been told. And Louis had never had any idea what that sentence meant, seemingly thrown there with no logical connection to his present. But now, he understood. He had the courage to dare, to risk it. And now, there he was, before his eyes, that land which, in his dreams, had been promised to him, that land which was only waiting to be taken, as if it were a longing woman needing attentions from a man who has long awaited and who, at last , has come in the shoes of a conqueror to make her his own.

He had moved on the bow of the ship, looking forward: his blue eyes sparkled even in the darkness of the nights, and he gave the order to prepare for the attack.

"Let's get closer, easy. The ships will be left on the coast. A part of you will attack the city gates. The others with me, from upstairs. We'll get there. " His voice, calm and soft, even when dictating death orders for the people of that town that could be seen from the sea, whose dim lights sparkled in the darkness. He had indicated a spot higher than the rest, towards what seemed to be a heap of lights stronger than anything else.

The ships had reached the sandy coast, and in haste but in the greatest silence possible they had been brought ashore, "Odin's Snake," the ship on which Louis, Njall and Zygvarr had travelled, had been placed overhead to all the others, and once stranded on the sand, the warriors had gathered their weapons. Louis had caught his dagger and his hammer, Njall his bow and arrows, Zygvarr a simple axe, forged for him. He had always been a simple man, in arms. His best quality was not his physical strength, but his mind. Master of Deception, cunning, wit: all this made him a perfect destructive machine, in terms of mind games.

They had silently made their way among the bushy vegetation of that entirely new land for them, and relying on their senses, they had followed the road that led to the gates of what seemed a rather wealthy town. After that, they had divided: one party had continued, silently, to proceed in the direction of the gates, while Louis, Njall, Zygvarr and a host of 30 other men had made their way to the high ground which led to what, now, closely, had the features of a "Mead Room", as they called it, which was undoubtedly the home of a king.

Zygvarr had stretched his ears and had shushed Njall with a gesture of his hand: "Shut up. Listen. "   
The music spread from the windows of that big house, and amused screaming, laughing and shouting accompanied it, producing a sort of unpleasant dissonance. That laughter would soon be transformed into warm tears of grief, and tears into blood; those noisy cries would have been screams of terror, that music would soon assume the sound of the weapons that clash among them in the roar of the fight. This, Louis knew it.

"May the feast begin. Now! "

In a moment, the crowd of warriors had thrown themselves down from the slope, reaching with force the doors of that big house, opening them wide, like a war ram breaking down the doors of a castle. Zygvarr had been the first to smuggle his axe, letting himself go to a thunderous and chilling laugh. Louis had followed him, impaling as many guards as possible--and he did not believe that a residence of that size could have so many. The blood flowed to their feet, exciting them in that surprise fight that would lead them to the dominion of that fortress. A cry of terror had risen from the apex of a stone staircase, on which towered a large open door: from the distance you could see a great light, and a multitude of people inside.

"The Demons, your Majesty! The Demons from the sea! ".

The man had seen them coming, had seen them approaching, but had not had time to give the alarm. And the Demons had reached him, and they had reached the whole terrified audience of the Great Hall. Including the king, Edward, and Harold, who, after moving away from the impertinent touch of Hella, had jumped from his seat. The terrified gaze had then moved on to the man at the door of the Hall, whose scream had choked in his throat, and was overlaid on the ground, finding the blood between his lips and his back pierced by an arrow. Njall, at the base of the staircase, smiled, and a sneer adorned the dark face of Zygvarr, while Louis swirled his dagger in his hands.

"Let blood flow as Rivers!": Louis' scream had echoed throughout the hall, throwing it into a deadly mixture of panic, terror and screams.

Harold had been petrified for a handful of seconds, which would have been fatal if he had not reacted later: he had grasped his sword, placed at the foot of his seat, and with the fury of a wolf had jumped down from the upward on which was placed the "Table of the Marry.

"William! With me! "

Liam had not had any hesitation: leaving there, in terror, the woman with whom until a few seconds before he had entertained, he had reached Harold in the middle of the Hall, who now, surrounded by the bravest among that horde of half-drunken men in that Hall, had begun its advance.

Conversely, the host of Vikings had certainly not been intimidated by the luminous sword Harold wielded in his fingers. Zygvarr had thrown himself on the staircase, followed by the Warriors, and the clash had begun. King Edward, however stunned by the alcohol, was not a coward. He had given orders to his most valiant warriors to challenge any weapon they could find and to fight for their people. The floor of the hall, in a short time, had assumed the appearance of a lake of blood, red and foul-smelling, full of slaughtered, shredded and mutilated corpses. Zygvarr had thrown himself on William, attempting to strike him from behind, but Liam had been skilled in paring his blows and answering: in a handful of seconds the two had found themselves in a melee clash, that the fluidity of their movements made look almost like a deadly dance. Both were wounded, but no one was mentioning to quit.

"Hide the Princess! Bring the princess to safety! " This had been the primary order of King Edmund, who had immediately run away from the hall with a retinue of men and the princess, seeking for help.

Njall, with his hands covered in blood, had made his way among many English warriors, reaching King Edward, who, however, had not been taken by surprise.

"Well well, what have we here? A king and his crown. You're not going to need it. Soon you'll have no place to put it, since I'll have your head cut off your neck. All your gold will not save you from our fury. " These, his only words, before pouncing on the loft on which the throne was erected: his arrows shot at great speed had reached the body of Edward, causing him bloody wounds, but not deadly.

Harold advanced to striding in the hall, killing or wounding as many Viking warriors as possible. The blood was sticking out of his beautiful face, almost like a stain on a painter's canvas, and his eyes sparkled, full of fire and fury as he protected his people in his own way. On the opposite side of the hall, almost as if it were his mirror, his complementary figure, Louis advanced in his turn. His hair was filled with sweat, his eyes lit by the warrior fury that always characterized him. He looked around, acting quickly as he wounded, mutilated and killed anyone who happened under the blow of his dagger or his hammer. Harold had seen him fight, at a distance, and had decided: he had to be his goal.

With the fury of a warrior God, he had thrown himself against his shoulders, but Njall had grasped his intentions and, from the distance, had shot an arrow that had wounded him in the arm, causing him to bleed. The blood trickled down his ripped robe, but nothing would stop him: he knew what to do.

"Louis! Careful! "

Zygvarr had left William, who continued to wiggle in pain, and raised his gaze just in time to warn his partner: Harold was on him.

He reached Louis, who, however, was responsive enough to turn around before the cold metal of Harold's blade hit him on his back. He had shifted, and now he was a few yards away from him.

He squared that warrior from head to toe: no armour, no shield. A simple blade, and a long, blue robe, adorned with red and gilded jesting, which was completely out of tune with its appearance at that moment. His face and his white hands were soaked with blood, as well as his garments and the blade of his luminous sword. Louis had never seen such a well-made weapon.

He quickly swirled his hammer in his hands, and with a sneer he turned to the man I had before him. "You're brave coming here without a shield, without anyone to protect you. Do you think your title is enough to spare you? Poor boy. " Louis had mocked him, before throwing at him, with all his fury, his heavy hammer. Harold had dodged the blow, lowered himself on the floor, while his arm kept bleeding.

"I don't want to be spared. I don't need the pity of a stranger entering my house! You will beg for mercy when I have you in my hands. " Harold had always been quite athletic and fast, despite his height, and this had allowed him to recover quickly: he was relieved of shooting and had launched a shot of the blade that, however, had come to nothing, making his finish again face forward to the floor. Louis had not been caught unprepared: he immediately jumped at him, pointing his dagger at his throat. The metal of that blade was cold against the Harold's skin, who now stood close between that weapon pointed against his throat and the body of that man behind him. The man, he though, was much smaller than himself, but he was quick and shrew, he had to admit it. But now, his voice came to his ear like an icy whisper, frosty, like an announcement of death.

"Poor, poor fool. You're brave, I must admit that, and that gives you honour, but see... you have no hope of getting out of this situation alive. What am I supposed to do with you now? Kill you? Or maybe I should let you live and watch the show? "


	8. Let Me See You

Let me See you

Harry's POV

Have you ever felt alone in the world? You feel like a tiny speck of dust in the wind, like a small drop of water in an immense expanse, like the single song of a bird in the middle of a flock. You feel irrelevant, useless, dull. Moreover, what difference can a drop make in a sea, a speck of dust in the midst of a whole expanse of sand or the single voice of a bird in the midst of a multitude? Nothing, no difference at all.  
And you feel like you are carried by the wind, the current, the rest of the flock, the events. As if nothing mattes, as if nothing you do has the power to change the world, the situations, the course of events, which follow one another as they were scenes of a show of which the director has lost control.  
It is as if one's presence was something extremely negligible, insignificant, something that no one could notice. And then you turn it off, you let go, you wonder what difference it can make to act or not to act, for or against something that, however, continues to take its course, with or without you. What's the point of singing, if no one listens? What's the point of writing words that no one can read? What's the point of screaming, if you're locked in a tower too far away from everything and everyone, while others go on with their party?   
Yet, as ephemeris your efforts may be, you are here. You live, breathe. Blood flows into your veins just like everyone else's. And you start asking why: why do you live, if your life is irrelevant? Why do you breathe, if the warmth of your breath dissipates in the wind like every other creature’s? Why does your heart keep beating, if that heartbeat does not have a melody to follow? That is the point: in order to live, breathe, sing, make your voice be heard, you have to find meaning. The absence of a harp in a melody is perfectly perceptible to the attentive ear of those who want to listen. And here's the meaning of everything: you have to find the one who actually wants to listen to your melody. And then yes, someone will notice your absence, someone will notice that you’re slowly turning off, and will carefully procure the necessary firewood to allow your inner fire to keep on burning, until it is alive, feeding it until it grows in a fire out of control. And only then, will your voice explode like fire in a forest. And only then it will make a difference, because you have something to say, something to fight for, something that will light up your being, something you did not believe could exist, something that will make you feel alive.   
And I had looked for him, I had imagined, dreamed of him. I had hoped that he would come and pull me out of my desire of letting myself go, from my apathy, from my stupor. I wanted him to be the flicker that would revive my warm flame, I wanted him to set me free as the wind was, I wanted him to heat up my being and my soul, feeding my most hidden and deep desires. And he had come to pull me out of my prison. My future had a voice, and two eyes, two warm hands, a constant and present breath. 

But before you build, you need to destroy. Sometimes you need to be destroyed, before you can rise up again. And I would have let myself be destroyed much more easily if I had known that he was like some sort of catharsis, some kind of purification. From my ashes I would have been reborn, thanks to his spell. 

 

But I didn't know that at the time. And my mind was too foggy for me to even think of articulating such a thought. My head was hurting, and my body was cold and sore. But I realized that only after having spent several minutes with my eyes closed, trying to understand where I was. Smells and sounds that I did not know, that I was not familiar with, struck my senses, almost slapped me to wake me up from that sleep in which I had collapsed. I was confused and lost. I tried to move, but something kept me still, stuck to something that, clearly, was not my bed. My legs seemed bound, as well as my chest. I opened my eyes slowly, and a ray of sunshine struck me in the face, making me look away from the point through which the light filtered. I let my eyes run on my body, finding myself tied to something that looked like a straw and wood bed, very rudimental and not even remotely similar to what I used to call bed. I was covered by something that looked like the skin of a gigantic bear, at least three times as big as me, and when I lifted it up, a very unpleasing smell breathed from under that blanket. I discovered, in amazement, that my robe, sewn by my personal tailor for the feast of my engagement, was torn at various points, and on my side, a gash in the robe left uncovered a wound which, I perceived, was very bad, and had been covered with a strange substance which, to what it seemed, was the cause of that nauseous smell. I turned the chief, disgusted by that stench that made me equal to who knows which wild animal in terms of smells, and I looked around, trying to figure out where I was. I inferred to be in a tent, a sort of rudimentary hut built with skins of animals and wood, whose dimensions were modest but enough to accommodate at least four or five men all together. In the corner, a large pile of weapons, shields and medicaments was amassed, alongside a series of garments and textiles that I had never seen before. Outside that hut, a series of men's voices filled the air, confusing me even more. I tried to lift myself slightly, but those tight ropes around my body prevented me from doing so, only causing me further pain because of the many wounds that were reported throughout my body. 

"Damn it!" I hissed between my teeth, trying with my hands to loosen the grasp of those knots that, however, seemed to only become more intricate with every tug. I would have done very badly if a presence had not interrupted my activity: a man of average stature, with a boy's face and ash-blond hair had entered the tent, carrying an axe from which the blood of those who know what beast was leaking. I square him, and he square me, before smiling with a mocking air. He threw the axe in the corner, adding it to the disorder that already reigned in that place, and approached me, completely uncovering me and making me jump, as much as I could.

"What the heck! Who are you? And, where am I? What place is this?! "  
I puked that series of questions in succession, trying to calm my doubts and dissolve the fog in my mind. 

"Aaah Good morning! Do you always sleep so much, princess? " had exclaimed the lad, before bursting into a thunderous laugh which had only increased my headache.   
He had used a language I would have sworn to know, although it was not mine, definitely. But I had already heard those sounds, and I was able to understand... it came back to my mind what one of my father's diplomats had taught me as a boy: that man had travelled far and wide, he knew languages and peoples, and he had tried to introduce me to the study of that language that, in that moment, I found myself perfectly able to speak and understand, although I did not remember what population it belonged to.

I widened the nostrils in nervous and tried once again to lift, to no avail. I tried to communicate and try to understand and explain myself, using that language.

"What are you saying? How much... how much did I sleep? And who are you?! "   
The idea of not knowing where I was and how I found myself in that state made me more nervous and irascible, and in addition, that stranger mocked me in the face calling me princess.  
"You slept for about two days, and I admit that initially we thought you were dead. I told Zygvarr that you couldn't be dead. However, if we hadn't cured your wounds, now you'd probably be a company for Odin in Walhalla. And I'm Njall.”  
" Odin? Wahl... What the heck are you saying? And who the heck is Zygvarr? What happened?”  
"Njall! You should bring the firewood to... Oh, what do we have here? At last. "

In that moment, another man, darker-skinned and with hair as black as night had made his entrance into the tent. He was taller than the one who had called himself... Njall... and his features were more delicate, more like those of the princes from the south who had visited the court several times. His eyes were dark, like his hair, but rather attractive. I would have sworn that he was a prince, had it not been for his attire: he wore leather breeches and a red gown made of canvas and wolf-skin that reached him to his knees. All those details seemed to me to be pieces of a mosaic that I was not able to put into order, and I kept looking at all those dowels like an impatient child.

"I was going to come and call you, man. The princess has woken up, and she's pretty grumpy. I wouldn't get too close if I were you. " 

The blond had continued to mock me with that nickname, and this time even the other man had joined that laugh, while my muscles had stiffened under those tight ropes around me. 

"Even if he wanted to, he could not hurt me much, in this state..."  
Zygvarr-or so whatever he was called-had let his eyes run through my body, exposed and covered with wounds that someone had worried about medicate, albeit with rather questionable methods. He had given me a mocking grin, before approaching my couch, observing me with arms folded, from the top down.

"... however, I must acknowledge that if he were in better condition, he would be a very good warrior, despite his lady-like appearance. Just look at the wounds he caused to Louis.”

"Oh Well, he's certainly not a softy, no, no. I saw him fight that night. Louis would have been in trouble if I hadn't noticed the situation!” had bragged about Njall, cleaning up that bloody axe that he had just thrown into the ground before.

So, I wasn't the only one who was hurt--in who knows what battle, then. I had closed my eyes, carrying my hands on my temples and starting to massage them to remember and to understand. A series of images crossed my mind, at a speed that made me nauseous: Edmund, Hella, William, my father, the feast, the wine, her hand on me...the blood, the screaming. And then the darkness.   
I stood with my eyes closed, keeping on massaging my temples, trying to put the pieces together, and I repeated aloud that series of information...

"wounds... fights... Louis... "   
that name... I had heard it, I could have sworn I had already heard it somewhere...   
"Who the hell is Louis?" I nervously stored, clenching my fists along my hips and straining the muscles of my legs and arms.

"I am Louis."

A third man had appeared on the threshold of that hut. And everything was clear to me.


	9. Welcome to Hell

Welcome to Hell  
That set of blurry images swirled in my mind, clouding my eyesight even more, and causing me a sense of nausea and intense unsteadiness. I wondered who those people were, how I ended up there, what happened, why wasn't I in my rooms.   
And then, everything was clearer.   
It was as if someone had given me the flicker to light the flame of a candle, dissipating the darkness in a completely dark room, allowing me to see clearly what I had to cope with.  
And I couldn't believe my eyes.  
That name, that person: I was putting the pieces together and a feeling of shock and anguish squeezed my chest. Those men were the demons who had broke into the party, butchering my father's men and whoever was in that room.   
Before me, a man of rather small stature compared to the others kept on observing me from afar. He had a dominance and authority air that I had seldom seen in my life, and he looked at me as if she was studying me, as if I were some kind of beast unknown to his eyes.  
He approached me silently, and I could observe his traits more closely. His cheeks were sunken, and a hint of beard filled his face, making him look probably older than he was. I would have sworn he was about my age, a few years older, perhaps. Yet, the fact that the other two men had become so silent at his entrance, made me infer that that man should cover some particular charge in that seemingly anarchic horde of warriors. He was their leader, and his eyes evoked a pride and resilience that for a few seconds made me feel like a frightened puppy. They were of an intense blue and were deep and as piercing as a shining sword. His lips were thin, and his features were incredibly harmonious and pleasing, which powerfully contrasted with his attire and all that, at that moment, that man represented to me. His body looked much thinner without the armour I had seen on him that night, and I wondered how such a tiny physique could hold such a vigour.   
And that man, yes, he was the warrior I had confronted face to face. I must have been unconscious, because I did not remember following him to that place, not on my free will at least. Someone had brought me there, and I would have sworn to know who.

“Well. We finally meet. I thought you'd never reopen your eyes. Njall was good, but I knew you weren't so crumbly. "

He had approached my bed, and I had readily shifted from his hand, now dangerously close to my face. I felt like a caged animal, a sort of attraction, a freak show put there to be watched and mocked by anyone who was too bored to mind their own business. His fingers had tightened around my jaw, and with a jerk of his hand, now clasped round my face, he had forced me to turn and look him in the eye. My teeth were gnashed in a grimace of disgust, pain and rage. How dare they treat me like this?   
"What do you want from me? You have no right to bring me here, to tie me up and keep me like I'm some kind of beast! " I had hissed, trying for the umpteenth time to get rid of those ropes that began to dig small reddish grooves in my white skin.  
He was laughing at my words, like I said the funniest thing in the world, and that behaviour started to rattle me even more, if that was possible.

"Oh, darling, I'm not treating you like a beast. If I did, you'd be in much worse condition, believe me. "

His laughter had turned into a sneer, and his gaze as hard as the stone lingered on my face that he still held me stuck in his hands, forcing me to look into the eyes of the one who, at that moment, had earned all my extreme hatred.   
"What do you want from me?"  
"From you? Oh, nothing, or better, nothing you can give me right now. But I'm sure your dad would pay a fair amount to get you back, wouldn't he? Judging from what you're wearing..." He had let his gaze run on my body, partially uncovered by the cuts on the robe of brocade now ragged and dirty I wore, making me want to cover myself immediately " or should I say... what you wore” - he went on, giggling and snackling the two behind him- “you look like a high-ranking man. You're a prince, aren't you? Tell me, what is your name, beauty? "   
He had uttered that last word with a voice full of mockery and irony, which made me want to smash that Angel face of his.   
"What makes you think I want to tell you my name?"   
"You know my name, right? Why shouldn't I know yours? "  
"Because I'm not going to have anything to do with you."  
"Oh, I think we'll have it for a while, so collaborate, it will be helpful."   
"I do not mean to stay here for one more second more, dammit!"  
"By Odin's beard, how hurried!" chuckled the blond behind Louis, making me almost gnashed his teeth at him.   
The whole situation was humiliating, degrading. I was a prince, and I was now bound to something that had the shape of a straw bed, with these stranger barbarians laughing at me, while I was wounded and helpless in that pitiful scenery. My eyes filled with tears of anger, as often happened, but I decided to give myself a demeanour, and I once again tried to get rid of the grip of those ropes. This time, the tug that I gave was much stronger than the previous ones, which resulted in a break of the laces that kept me standing against that bed.   
A victorious smile stretched out my face, and I looked up only to find myself in front of the surprised and baffling faces of the three men, who remained static for a few seconds, which I used to my advantage. I undid the ropes at my feet, and I stood up, but I sank on my side, where the pain was stronger and sharper than I thought. I did not have time to go beyond a couple of steps, not only because my body was still weak and busy, but also because I felt a blow on my shoulders that sent me to the ground. Then, two hands, much smaller than mine, grabbed my wrists, carrying my arms behind my back, so that I could not move, again. The hold was mighty, for such small hands, and I was too weak to be able to react again. My chest was quickly moving up and down, catching some air after the effort I had been through a few seconds earlier, and all I could do was bow my head, trying with all the few-forces that I had in my body to free me from that narrow.   
Njall and Zygvarr had grasped their weapons and blocked the exit of the tent with their impressive bodies, and I could not think of any other way of escape at that time. My boy was too debilitated for any effort, and still too confused and troubled to be able to think logically.   
One hand crept through my sweaty hair, a squeeze that led me to recline my head backwards. I felt the warmth of his body against mine, and his breath against my ear and on the skin of my neck. Once again, that man had me at his mercy, and he could have done anything to me. 

"Now listen carefully" he had whispered against my skin, triggering a chill down my back "now you will do everything I tell you. You will not try to escape, you will not speak unless questioned, and you will answer my questions. Whatever I say, it will be an order for you, any of my single whisper, gesture or Word will be the only thing you obey, and perhaps I will spare you. Otherwise, I will send your father the mutilated pieces of your body, one by one. Understood? "

I don't know what kind of answer he was expecting from me, I don't know if he had a good understanding of who he was dealing with. But of course, I wouldn't have let myself be a coward, I would not have let him dominate me so easily. I turned to him, as close as he would allow me, and I looked at him. His eyes were full of fury and looking at him closely I was certain of one thing: I hated that man, and I would have done everything to escape from him, from his grasp upon me, from his voice in my ear, from his body against mine. I gathered all the forces I had in my body, only to be able to turn a bit more, so as to have almost his nose against mine, and my answer was more than clear: I gathered between the lips my saliva and spit it against his beautiful and impertinent face , and I hissed "You'll never have me."

The anger and humiliation that he in that moment would have been perceptible by any living creature within a mile. His aura exuded a grudge against me, and the expression on his face did not conceal anything: his eyes wide open, a mixture between surprise and fury, his teeth gnashed into a grimace which made him look more like a wolf than like a man, his breath become less and less controlled and more and more arrhythmic. He raised a hand in the air, and I closed my eyes, ready for the pain that would cause me with that blow. But the pain did not come. Nor did the shot. 

He let me go, pushing me against that dusty soil, making me end up facing forward and passing the back of his sleeve on his face, cleaning away my saliva, before bending over his knees, reaching my face and holding it in one hand, forcing me to look at him. 

“Fine. I gave you a chance. I would have been good to you if you had let me. But no, apparently you don't like easy things. Welcome to Hell, beauty. "   
He had whispered those sentences a few inches from my face, almost as if the other two, who had witnessed that scene as passive spectators, were not there. His voice was like ice on the skin, like the sound of a sharp blade against the iron.  
He had risen, leaving me on the ground, helpless, and with my wrists still aching for his grasp, as well as many other parts of my body, because of the wounds. Then, turning to the other two he had spoken in a peremptory pitch.  
"Njall, tie him up. Give him some water, and the food only necessary to keep him alive. Zygvarr, get ready. You're going to deal with his father. He's our hostage right now. If they want him back, they’ll have to pay. As for me, I will be his jailer. No one will enter here except me, from this moment on. No one. "

Njall had raised me on from ground and brought me back to that couch made of straw and wood, tying me again, and then tinkering with some medicaments in the side of the tent. Zygvarr had looked at me before leaving: a sneer, a smile that looked almost like a cut on his beautiful face. Louis had given me a last hard look, before leaving the place, heading out to great stride. 

I closed my eyes: My head was hurting tremendously, and the pain on my right hip, as torn as my dignity and my honour, plunged me back into the darkness of my sleep and my mind.


	10. The Rose in The Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack: Eversleeping- Xandria ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Av-NlCSu0oM )

The Rose in the Rain  
LOUIS’ POV  
How does it feel like to hold power in your hands? How does it feel to be the master of the world? It feels good, very good. I know for sure, because that's how I felt after capturing him. I had that young man in my hand, I was about to take that land. It would have been mine, I would have conquered and dominated the air, the people, the Earth, its waters and its fires. Everything.  
Still, something was missing. At night, I would stay awake thinking. About what? I don't know. I don't know, because I didn't know what I was missing at the time. It was like a latent emptiness in the depths of my soul, like something that keeps on touching you without exposing itself, like a flaw in a perfect plan. Yes, because that plan had a flaw, a hole, something unexpected. Something that, at that moment, I didn't know. And I would stay up thinking about that something that was missing, that made all my ideal perfection a pitcher of gold with a crack in the middle. And what I didn't understand was that I had everything right in front of me.

I had been out all day, hunting with the others, trying to get the necessary food, and I took advantage of it for a round of patrol in those lands. The King's men knew, by now, about our presence, so even if they had seen us, it would not have been such a big surprise. I needed to know that place, to know what possibilities it could offer us, to understand what I could build there, far away who knows how much from my place of birth. The climate was similar, so nothing so new to me and my companions. Going up a hill, we were hidden between the tall grass and the dense woods, and then reached a very high point, which had given us a panoramic view of that place. The green fields and forests stretched around that town, perfectly surrounded by defensive walls, which, I must admit, had not been so much effective. However, those walls enclosed a series of dwellings, farms, fences, which stretched close to a precise point, beyond which no one seemed authorized to advance, not without an authorization, at least. I sank on my knees, discovering the branches of the vegetation that surrounded us in order to be able to look better, as much as possible. Beyond a further boundary of walls, made up of stone vault, stretched a large structure, also made of stone, much higher than any other in that city: No doubt, it was the abode of the king, the one we had attacked a few evenings before.   
I could clearly distinguish the stone stairs that preceded the large entrance doors that we had opened wide, which, by now I knew, they opened on a large room: probably used only for celebrations or special occasions. And of course, that room was only one of the many rooms in that fortress, adorned with walls and towers, on which some guards were of lookout. I wondered how many people could live in there, I asked myself how much gold and riches could hold that majestic Palace. And Zygvarr almost made me believe that he had read my mind when, giving me an elbow shot, he asked "How much do you think all the gold they're hiding in there is worth?"   
"I have no idea, but surely a lot. However, it is not the gold that I want. I want everything you see in front of you. I want that town at our feet, Zygvarr. I want a new life, I want to be Master of my desires, for once. "  
“ Let’s take it then, Louis. Let's take that damn city. If we sent a message to your father, he could send reinforcements, the power would be ours in a snap of our fingers! "  
“ But I don't want my father's help. I don't need it. Don’t you understand? We came here to prove something, to prove that we're capable of doing this alone! I'm not going to hide behind my father's armies. We will use the boy. "   
“What are you going to do then?" Njall slicked into the conversation, looking at me with a confused and sceptical air.

"I've already told you. I'm going to use wit. We'll hold the boy hostage. Zygvarr will go to the fortress, he will be received from the king and put our conditions. "  
" Why am I the one who has to go? Not that I'm pulling back- justified Zygvarr-but explain to me why you don't want to be the one who goes there personally. "   
“Because, Zyg--I murmured looking up at him, letting my eyes slide on his face, till I meet his--I have extreme confidence in your oratory skills. You are a master at manipulating, convincing and shaping situations in your own way. Or did you forget? "

I knew those compliments would be pleasing to him: he was a rather vain fellow, and he appreciated when his best qualities were praised. And I had thrown an arrow right in the darkest part of his heart and his character: he gave me a cunning, accomplice smile, which I promptly reciprocated.  
"I haven't forgotten it, Louis. Not at all. I don't forget. " He murmured, continuing to smile at me with his tongue between his teeth and his eyes lighted by a light... something particular, which I had a few times seen in him. Desire, lust: That's what it was. He wanted and knew to live up to that task and would prove it. Njall, on the other hand, was still very sceptical.  
"And how will he talk to those men? They do not know our language and Zygvarr does not... "  
"You heard the boy in the tent, didn't you? He spoke like us, he understood us. Which means that they are aware of the existence of our people. They must have interpreters, otherwise where would the boy have learnt the language?" interrupted him abruptly Zygvarr, to whom no details escaped.  
"Oh... right... well, what do we do now?" inquired Njall with a low head.  
"Hush!"

 

Meanwhile, my eye was laid on a large animal that, a short distance from us, wandered undisturbed: a deer. Slender, swift and proud, one of the most beautiful creatures I had ever seen. The Auburn horns stretched towards the sky, which above us began to dusk, and the mantle sparkled under the light of the last rays that the sun gave to those lands. I wondered why was he in a place like that: the forest was not so dense, and I raised an eyebrow instinctively, slightly surprised by that situation, finding it rather unusual. But the flow of all my thoughts and reflections was blocked by the twinkle of a blade that, thrown at great speed, struck the animal, going to stick in a very precise point: its heart.   
"Got you." A hiss at my side did not delay enlightening my doubts about who was the maker of that action that I found abominable.   
"Zygvarr! What are you doing?! "  
"Um... I get dinner, Louis," he said, rising to his feet and shrug, as if nothing were, walking towards the beast that still moved against the cold ground.  
"But have you gone mad?!" I said loudly, rising abruptly and following him, until we reached the body of the poor agonizing beast. For some reason, that gesture had annoyed me, troubled me. It was like a cold-blooded murder and... not that I wasn't used to it, but something had hit me deep inside, as if the blade had my heart's point.   
"Oh, relax, Louis, it's just a deer!" minimized Zygvarr, giving the animal a stroke of grace, cutting it right in front of my eyes, leaving the blood flowing on the grass, wetting it and giving it a dark and obscure shade.   
"Yes, in fact Louis, it's not the first animal we kill, what's the matter with you?" asked Njall, confused, and then slapped me on the shoulder.   
I stood still for a few seconds, staring at that deer, now devoid of life. Njall was right, it wasn't the first time, and yet... there was something different. The sky now, above us was made dark, and a series of black clouds and laden with rain covered it. I felt the first drops fall into my hair, and I turned the palms of my hands and my face upwards, letting it get wet as if I wanted to wash away the sense of guilt and the turmoil I felt in that moment. I closed my eyes for a few seconds, estranged myself from anything that surrounded me. I sighed, and I silently asked Odin to give me a sign, something that could make me understand why I felt that unpleasant feeling inside.   
“Louis. Louis, we must go... " Njall’s voice was a distant whisper, while I was lost in my inner dimension.  
It kept raining, and my mates called me back to attention... So, I decided to turn around, watching them as the drops kept soaking our clothes and hair. 

"Bring the deer. I'll go to the boy. "

I started down that hill, now slippery and soaked with rain. As I walked, a small tear decided to add to the raindrops on my face, then falling on the ground. I looked down, and again I was surprised at the magnificence of that place: a flower, a single flower in the midst of that huge expanse, was there, in front of my feet. It had the colour of the blood, dark and scarlet, and its petals were drenched by the droplets of water that unstoppably permeated the ground. I leaned over and watched that wonder for a handful of seconds. That was the flower I saw in my dreams when I was home.  
I picked it up in my hands, tearing it to that ground and turning it between my fingers for a few moments, then starting again for my path, directed to the tent.


	11. Compromises

Compromises   
LOUIS’ POV

 

That day seemed to have no end. That long walk up to the tent seemed to have no end. I felt alone, in that moment, lonely as I had never felt before, alone with my thoughts, with what I had inside, alone with something I did not know, that I could not control. It never happened to me, not until then. Njall and Zygvarr had always been a safe haven for me, a foothold, my stick even on the steplest and slippy soils of my life. But the fact that neither of them had understood what I was feeling at that time, the fact that they both underestimated my feelings made me feel like a child to whom they have lifted his favourite toy. And what made me even more irascible and vulnerable at the time was that I couldn't understand myself. It had happened other times, but that feeling had faded in a matter of seconds, usually thanks to some distraction, something that would turn my mind away from those little details that pushed me to think of myself, to what I really was. The thing was that I did not like to think about myself, I did not like to analyze what I had inside, to vivisize my thoughts and my emotions. Lightness was my best feature, yet at that moment I felt that I could not let go of that swirl of emotions and reflections.   
I kept squeezing that flower in my hands. I did not know it, I had never seen it, and to make it even more singular there was the fact that, apparently, that Flower was the only one that had managed to grow in that green expanse that I had recently left behind.  
When I had entered the tent, the rain had now completed its intent: I was soggy. Drops of water were draining down from my brown hair, from my pale face and from my clothes.   
I would have changed soon, but first there was something I had to take care of. With one last step, I reach the entrance and I got the sheepskin hanging on the wooden beam, so I could make my entrance. In the corner, the boy stood still in the same position in which I had left him that morning. Not that he had many options, for that matter. He was still bound to that bed, and the fever caused by that wound had to have dragged him into a sleep so deep that he hadn’t even noticed my presence in there. Quickly, I freed myself of my kyrtill, the wool over-tunic that I usually wore, and, later, also of the now damp tunic that covered my chest. I leaned on my knees, and began to tinker with the tools necessary to light a fire, whose spark revived in a few moments, warming as much as possible that environment that had become cold and humid. I then stood up, and slowly rested the red flower on a wooden bench, right next to the boy's couch. I took advantage of his momentary sleep to stay there a few seconds, looking at him... Brown hair, curly, spread gently on the fabric of white cloth that covered that straw, and his body, now completely relaxed, stretched for a long portion of that bed. His height was one of the things that struck me when, on the evening of the attack, he had approached me furiously. Now, asleep and completely relaxed, however, he did not seem at all the Prince-warrior who had attempted to kill me that evening. His lips were red and full, slightly unclosed to allow his breath to caress them. His pronounced jawline was now relaxed and his eyes, which I knew to be of an emerald colour, were closed, adorned with long lashes that made him look like a child. His breath was regular, and his skin was white, almost snow-like. I glanced over a flap of the fabric of his robe, sticking out from under the blanket that enveloped him, noticing an interesting detail. That garment seemed to be made of a very fine cloth that I had never seen before, but to draw my attention was a red and golden embroidery, on the collar of that long robe of dark blue colour. It seemed to be the embroidery of a flower, and I raised an eyebrow, surprised when I noticed that it was just like the one I had collected little time before in those fields and that over and over again I had dreamed. I stood to observe him for a few seconds, baffled by that strange coincidence and I realized I had stretched a hand on his garment only when, perceying my slight touch, the lad awoke to jerk, lifting himself on his elbows in a swift movement as was as Lightning, making me jump and lift to my feet.  
"What the hell are you doing?" he had exclaimed aloud, in a mixture of fright, surprise, and confusion.

And I found myself out of the blue. What the hell was I doing, exactly? I didn't know why, but I was attracted to that drawing, and I wanted to ask for explanations. But besides, that boy was my prisoner, and the fact that I was sitting beside his bed, stretching his hands on him while he was in the midst of his sleep must have seemed more than weird to him. Quickly, I turned, approaching the fire to be stirred, in an attempt to conceal and hide my uncertainty at that moment. 

"Oh, you're awake again. I thought you'd be asleep for another whole day. "

The boy snorted, passing his hand on his face and eyes, but without a word. I suspected he did not like me much, but I was a good jailer, after all. I had not whipped him, I had asked Njall to take care of his wounds, and now I was also keeping him warm with that fire, what more could he ask for?  
I stood up again, looking at him from afar, resting my hands on my hips, turning him a smile. 

"You’re not a very talkative boy, are you, sweetheart? Or is it just because you just woke up?"

Once again, no answer, just a glance, interspersed with attempts to move under the pressure that the ropes exercised on his body.

"You shouldn't do that, you know? I was nice to you, darling” I slowly approached him, with a series of slow steps, while the rainwater still dried from my hair, patting my chest like a woman's fingers on her lover's body. I noticed his gaze wandering about the room: all but not to cross mine. I would have said he was intimidated by me, but he wasn't. He looked stubborn and proud, just like me. And perhaps his way of not submitting to my will was the engine that seemed to attract me to him, as if it were a source of clear water after months of drought.   
I took my fingers close to his face, almost wanting to touch him, and I let the back of my forefinger caress his cheek slowly, whose whiteness was troubled by some minor scratches gained in the fight. The boy, however, turned away from my touch, turning his face, so that his eyes were directed towards that flower that I had previously abandoned next to him. Escaping my touch, my questions, escaping me, was driving me crazy, and I felt almost humiliated.   
"Now listen to me fine little ins..."  
"What do you do with that?" his voice was deep, calm, almost in contrast to the slightly wheezing breath that animated his broad chest. His sound struck my ears like a warm and intoxfying melody, like a soft velvet caressing a tired cheek.   
"What?" I asked, confused, for a second.  
"I said, what do you do with that?" he inquired, again, pointing with a nod the red flower, the same which was embroidered on the edge of his robe.   
"Do you know what it is?"  
"Of course I know what it is. You don't? "he turned his gaze against mine, allowing me to observe in the light of the fire that warmed the room its features, at the same time manly and elegant, marked but fluid. His eyes were as green as the mountains of Denmark, and big, deep, clear. And once again, with a few words he had managed to humiliates me: I did not know something that for him, it seems, was obvious.   
“No. I've never seen one before. " I said with more hardness is time, averting my gaze from his. I could not tell him that I had seen several times that strange and beautiful flower in my dreams, I could not give him the key to my mind, to my innermost dimension. He wouldn't have it, no one would have. Never.  
"What's his name? The flower, I mean. " I asked, attempting to divert attention from my ignorance.   
"Untie me and I tell you."   
I burst out laughing at his assertion, a thunderous laugh.  
"If you think I'm going to uncork you for something like that, then you really don't understand anything. How stupid do you think I am, Princess? " I mocked him again, using that nickname, and he gave me a cheeky, cheeky smile.   
"Then you shall have nothing from these lips."  
He said to me, simply. And a weird sensation of warmth spread in my lower belly, up my stomach, accompanied by a thrill down my back. I rose abruptly, almost frightened by the sensations that those words, accompanied by that look and that smile, had provoked me. I was sure that sentence had no secondary implication, and yet...  
"And anyhow, I must pee. So unless you want to be yourself to help me with your hands, you're going to have to untie me. " His voice, again, interrupted my flow of thoughts, causing me to look back upon him.   
"How do I know you're not going to do anything you don't have to do, MH?"   
"Because you have my word."   
"Oh, your word! The words are but heaps of dust in the wind. I don't give a shit about words. I don't need anything, what matters is the facts. "  
“Words have more power than you think, Louis. "   
It was the first time I'd heard my name come out of those fleshy, delicate lips, and again that strange heat took over my chest.   
"Words are like blades in the hands of a blacksmith. They can hurt, cut, slash. But they are also like honey, sweet and dense, like the sound of the voice of the person you love most, to your ear. " His tone was calm, languid, his voice warm and penetrating. He spoke softly, carefully choosing what he was saying, mastering perfectly those words as swords in the hands of a skilled warrior. 

"I'll unhand you if you first tell me the name of that flower."   
"I placed my terms first." He was so damn stubborn and headstrong. We both were.   
"In case you haven't noticed, I'm the one who decides. You are my prisoner. "   
“Do you think my father will reward you if you don't keep me safe and sound? "  
"I'm keeping you better than good, I'd say. What else do you want? "  
"I must pee, I said."   
"Oh, screw you." I spit out those last words, forcing myself almost to cooperate with him. I bent down to untie the ropes that kept his body tied to the couch, keeping them in his hands. I approached and took his face in one hand, clutching my fingers around his pronounced jawline.   
"Just try to run away or make any misstep and I'll kill you with my own hands, princess."   
"I'm not so stupid."  
"You could be."   
"Or I might not be."   
"But you could."  
"But I am not." 

At every verbal exchange our faces had approached more and more, until we found ourselves a few inches from each other. I could feel his warm breath on my lips, his warmth, the scent that, despite everything, came from his skin. His eyes continued to flow on my face, down to my bare chest, still slightly damp because of the drops of water. I tilted the face slightly to the side, passing the gaze from his lips to his emerald eyes.

"Rose."   
"What?" I asked, confused, moving away from him, in realizing how close we were. He had uttered that word which I had never heard, before my lips and I had felt the warmth of his voice closer than ever.  
“Rose. The flower, that one, is a rose. Now can you grant me my needs? Or should I pee here in your tent? " A little impertinent, that's what he was. Those constant changes of tone, of conversation, drove me mad. I let a puff of air leave my nostrils before I nod the head towards the entrance to the tent.   
"Come on."   
He stood up, and only at that moment did I notice how taller he was than I was. At least twenty inches separated us, and his body was perfectly proportioned. I placed behind him, and holding his wrists behind his back with one hand, I slowly pushed him towards the exit. 

"I still don't know your name."   
The lad sighed, letting himself go almost as if it were a confession, “Harold. My name is Harold. "   
“Harold. It's a little too serious as a name, don't you think? "   
“Well, please. "  
“ Harold... Harold... Har... Harry. "I repeated that name repeatedly, as I pushed him to walk before me, keeping his wrists behind his back, after walking in the rain to reach a secluded place.  
"What?"   
"I will call you so."   
"No, you won't call me that. You have no right. "  
"And you have instead? I decide. "   
“I hate you. "   
“I know. I never asked you to be my princess. "  
"Oh Fortunately, because such a thing will never happen. And for the record, I'm not a princess. Or do I have to prove it? "he asked, again with a sly smile printed in his face while, after freeing himself from my grip I had loosened, he began to tinker with the flap of his breeches. I turned, leaving him to his needs, while a slight warmth spread over my cheeks.  
"You are a little impertinent. Now move. " 

I answered dryly, remaining turned, giving him the shoulders and waiting for him to do what he had to do. Meanwhile, in my mind I kept on rethink about two things, two very important information for me that evening. I had the name of that flower, and I had his name. I had a rose, and I had Harry.


End file.
